What You Wish For
by X-parrot
Summary: Ryuichi x Tatsuha. Tatsuha has a religious experience — he meets his god...
1. secret dream

Please, be gentle...this is the first time I've written anything close to lemon-scented. I'm still relatively new to this whole yaoi dealie. Additionally, this was intended to be a single story, but now that it's done a sequel has started to insist on being written... 

This follows anime continuity--I started this before I got hold of the manga, and can't read Japanese well enough to draw characterizations from it as it is. So in my special little universe Tatsuha and Ryuichi have never met, before now. 

What You Wish For 

X-parrot 

It was just chance, really, that he ended up there at all. Ayaka-chan had mentioned wanting to visit her boyfriend that weekend, and Tatsuha felt obliged to assist, out of some lingering thread of filial duty, and innate propriety with pretty young ladies. And for the chance to get out of the house, away from his father's all-seeing eye. Too long under that pressure and he'd start behaving unmonkly--well, moreso. Besides, it wasn't that far to Tokyo, and what better way did he have to spend five hours? 

By mid-afternoon, after dropping Ayaka off at Nakano's place, he decided he was too tired to go back that night and headed over to his brother's instead. Eiri always let him crash at his flat--not happily, but he wouldn't stop him. Especially not if Shindou were in; Shuichi couldn't deny a pitiful face, and Eiri couldn't deny Shuichi, not when it mattered. 

Shuichi was in; he heard them from out in the hall, knocked on the door and listened to the sound of one of the most popular voices of contemporary Japan twisted into a whine uncannily like a basset hound's. "Nee...pleeease, Yuki!" 

"I told you, I can't." 

Footsteps crossed the floor and then the door wrenched open. "'Afternoon, aniki," Tatsuha said amiably. Eiri's yellow eyes flickered over his brother; then with a spare nod of acknowledgment he turned and marched back to his lover. 

Who was currently trying to win Eiri's concession by way of maximum strength puppy-dog eyes. They were open so wide it looked painful. "Yo, Shuichi," Tatsuha greeted him, following his brother inside. 

"Hi," Shuichi returned distractedly. "Yuki, onegai shimasu, you said you'd go before--" 

"Before my publisher issued the new deadline. I don't have time for parties now, not if the manuscript is going to be anywhere near ready by next Tuesday." 

"It's not like it's a real party, it's just a cocktail thing. K's only making me go 'cause a couple of the backers of the album are going to be there. They want to meet me and I gotta make a good impression--" 

"And I could help with that?" Eiri asked acerbically. 

"You make good impressions on people when you want to," Shuichi replied, undeterred. "And I'm always better when I'm with you." 

"I can't go," Eiri said. "I'm sorry." He didn't particularly sound so, but for him even to say it was something. In truth it was impressive that he was putting up with this argument at all, rather than simply walking out, or kicking the instigator out. Tatsuha sometimes wondered if Shuichi really had any idea how much he had changed his lover. 

Not that he had any problem understanding the reasons, of course. It seemed to be an Uesugi family trait, falling for rock stars. And Shuichi was so damn adorable. 

Even now, with his face puckering in preparation for tears. Eiri sighed the sigh of one long-suffering. "Can't you go with K, if he's the one behind this ordeal?" 

"K's already coming," Shuichi said. "Everybody's coming. Hiro's even got a date. You're the only one who won't be there..." And, from his expression, the only one who counted. 

Eiri looked in desperate need of a cigarette--he must have left his pack in the other room. Or gone through it already. "Alright, why don't you--why don't you go with Tatsuha?" 

Knowing better than to be arbitrarily drawn into a lover's quarrel, Tatsuha protested, "Hey, why would I want to--" 

"Sakuma Ryuichi will be there, right?" Eiri added offhandedly. 

"--kill you, since I'm sure you'll give me that invitation if I ask nicely," Tatsuha finished without missing a beat, dropped to his knees before his new best friend and clasped Shuichi's hand in urgent supplication, "Please please please please please--" 

"All right," Shuichi agreed, bemused. 

"Ya-HOO!" Tatsuha shouted, at enough decibels to rattle the window panes. 

* * *

It took a little while to overcome the sheer shock of realizing that he was going to meet his Sakuma--Sakuma Ryuichi--Sakuma Ryuichi of Nittle Grasper--live, in person, for real. After which the dilemmas of his rash decision began to occur to him. "What will I say? Would it be rude to ask for a photo? What do I wear? I didn't bring anything for this--" 

"You can borrow something," Eiri said, and padded after his brother to the bedroom, where Tatsuha proceeded to try on every jacket in his closet. 

"What about this one? Too dull, I think, I don't want to be mistaken for one of the walls, but that one's way too flashy, gotta look like I have some taste--" 

"Honestly." Eiri rolled his eyes. "You sound like a girl dressing for a prom." 

"Aniki, this is far more important than a dumb school dance. Now do you think this shirt clashes with these shoes?" 

"I wouldn't worry about it too much," Shuichi remarked. "It's supposed to be formal, but I'm not wearing a tie, and I'm pretty sure Sakuma-san won't be either." 

"What's your problem, anyway?" Eiri asked. "It's not like you've never seen him before. You've gotten his autograph, haven't you?" 

"Six times," Tatsuha confirmed. "But I've never actually gotten to meet him, speak with him..." He lost a good five minutes of precious planning time to a vision of Sakuma-sama, wearing anything whatsoever, actually in front of him, talking to him, aware of him... 

In this manner did Eiri and Shuichi manage to outfit him decently and get him outside by the time K picked them up in his van. He was fine for the drive; it wasn't until he was at the entrance to the hall that his legs locked. Behind the wooden doors he could hear the murmur of mingling voices and soft jazz. Impossible to pick out any individual, but he could almost swear-- 

"Come on," Shuichi said, and gave him a light shove on the back to propel him through the doors. 

If anyone attended their appearance Tatsuha didn't notice, too busy scanning the crowd for one face. He didn't spot any sign at first glance, strained his eyes as he searched everyone again, and then Shuichi pointed, and the crowd parted like a sea to reveal, standing in a halo of golden light-- 

Well, no; in fact he was in a corner, partially obscured by a tall potted shrub. He wore tight black jeans and a lace-trimmed waistcoat which wouldn't have been out of place in Europe three centuries ago but looked even more stylish on him here and now, and was apparently engaged in conversation with two balding men in suits. 

Upon closer observation, however, Tatsuha realized that 'conversation' was putting it too strongly. The shorter of the men was talking, and had been at some length to tell from his steady monotone. His associate was nodding emphatically with every sentence. And Sakuma Ryuichi-- 

Sakuma Ryuichi was eating grapes. In one hand he clutched a large bunch of dark purple wine grapes, and as the man before him prattled on, he repeatedly brought the cluster to his mouth, closed his lips around a single grape and sucked it off its stem, thus devouring them one by one. 

Tatsuha had never so badly wanted to be a fruit. 

His observation was interrupted by Shuichi, cheerfully mindless of the muted tone of the event, caroling, "Sakuma-san!" as he waved. 

Ryuichi glanced across the room to them and shouted, "Shuichi's here!" He handed the grape stem to the startled conversationalist, then launched himself, with an impressive hurdle over the plant, at Shuichi. 

The younger rock star, braced for the reaction, staggered but managed to keep his footing as Ryuichi happily squeezed the life out of him, babbling, "Shuichi, they said you'd be here and maybe we could do a song together though Tohma said maybe not--" 

"Ah, maybe, Sakuma-san." Shuichi pried Ryuichi off his neck, set him down much as one would place an expensive vase on a table, and said, "This is my friend Tatsuha, he's Yuki's brother, you remember Yuki, right? He's a big fan of yours." 

"Who, Yuki?" 

"No, Tatsuha." 

"Oh!" Ryuichi flashed a stunning smile and bowed. "_Hajimemashite_!" 

"What an--I mean--_Hajimemashite_! _Dozo yoroshiku_!" Tatsuha bowed in return, then found it difficult to straighten up again, what with all the blood rushing to his head. In fact everything seemed to be going hazy, flashing indigo blue, the exact color of Sakuma Ryuichi's eyes up close-- 

"Eh!" He felt Shuichi prop him upright again. "Tatsuha?" 

"Is Tatsuha-kun okay?" a worried voice asked--and he realized it was Ryuichi, Sakuma Ryuichi sounding concerned for him--"Maybe he's hungry?" Ryuichi was asking. 

"Maybe," Shuichi agreed. "He did skip dinner." 

"Then he's gotta eat!" A hand grabbed his own and began to draw him, stumbling, toward the buffet. 

Tatsuha raised his head, focused on the hand pulling him, the arm attached, frilled sleeves, dark coat. "Sakuma-sama--uh, san--" he stammered--holding his hand, flesh to flesh, he was touching-- 

"Here," Ryuichi said. They had reached the table. Contact was broken so the rock star could point with both hands. "Those things with the cheese are yummy, so is the sushi. Do you like hotdogs? Those little sausages taste just like them--" Before Tatsuha knew it he was planted on a folding chair by the buffet, a paper plate loaded with hors d'oeuvres in his lap. 

He picked up a miniature pastry, tasted it, then dared look to his right. Sakuma Ryuichi leaned against the table beside him, watching. "You have to remember to eat," he said earnestly. "It's very important. K used to make me eat if I forgot. Do you know K? He's with Shuichi now but he's my friend too." 

He had seen that smile before, so utterly, brilliantly happy, but only on screens or distant stages. This close it was blinding. Tatsuha lowered his eyes. "_Arigato gozaimasu_..." Ah, damn it, he was sounding like a shy girl on her first date--think, think. He could sweet-talk any woman under the sun, any guy either, so why was his tongue flopped in his mouth like a dead fish? If he didn't say something soon he was going to walk away-- 

"So you like Nittle Grasper?" Ryuichi asked. 

"Y-yes!" Tatsuha gasped. "I mean, I love you--your music--I love your music! I've got all your CDs and I've been to your concerts--" Eighteen times in fact, including two in America, which had cost him most of his savings just to get there. 

"Nori-chan and Tohma are here," Ryuichi said. "Do you want to meet them, too?" 

"No! I mean, um...I would, but--I've met Tohma before, he's married to my sister." Not that that counted for much. The wedding had been such a small, formal affair, and he didn't visit Mika often. Tohma-san was technically his brother-in-law but Tatsuha didn't feel anywhere near the kinship with him that he did with Shuichi. 

Or with Tohma's bandmate here... 

Who was abruptly gone. And then back again, before Tatsuha's heart could skip more than a beat, accompanied by a pretty lavender-haired lady he instantly recognized. 

"This is Noriko-chan," Ryuichi supplied unnecessarily. "And this is Tatsuha. He's Tohma's brother-in-law!" 

"You came with Shuichi, right?" Noriko asked after they exchanged greetings. 

"Hai. Aniki, Yuki Eiri, couldn't make it, so I was the closest available substitute." 

Noriko returned his smile. "You're a loyal brother. You'd have had to pay me to come here if I hadn't been obliged." 

"Yeah, well, the band could take lessons from you, but there is free food. I could think of worse places to be." His eyes of their own accord kept slipping off her lovely curves and onto Ryuichi, who had produced a battered pink rabbit from some mysterious pocket and was making it do a jig on the table. 

The ubiquitous bunny, of course. He had seen it in pictures, read of it in interviews. He had had dreams about that bunny. He didn't want to know what Freud would make of _that_. 

"Tatsuha-kun's a Nittle Grasper fan," Ryuichi said, looking up from the toy's dance. 

"Oh? Would you like an autograph?" 

"Ah, no, thank you, Ukai-san, I already have...some." 

"I see." He dragged his eyes back to Noriko to find her studying him with an unnerving air of comprehension. "Well, I hope you have a good evening, Tatsuha-kun." 

And she was gone, leaving him alone again with Ryuichi. He found her presence had loosened his tongue, at least, mustered the breath to ask, "Is that Kumagoro?" 

"Yes!" Ryuichi grinned. "You know Kumagoro?" He cocked the bunny's head inquisitively. 

Tatsuha patted its squishy nose. "I saw a picture of you with him in a magazine." 

"Oh! Photos! Kumagoro and I love those!" Ryuichi's eyes shone. "You know," he went on, "Kumagoro likes to sing, too." 

"Really?" Tatsuha blinked, trying to imagine Ryuichi singing in a rabbit's voice, and having too much success. Would it be the falsetto from 'Moondrift'? Maybe that brief snatch of perfect soprano in 'Sensitive'... 

"He's got his own video!" Ryuichi confided. "Though Tohma didn't want to sell it, so it didn't play anywhere. But I have it." 

"You..." A Sakuma Ryuichi video that no one had seen? He was asking before he had a second to think, "Could I borrow that sometime?" 

"Sure! Or you can come over to watch it. Tohma just bought me a new TV, it's really big and neat." 

Was that a personal invitation to Ryuichi's residence? "I'd love to," Tatsuha said, trying not to hyperventilate. It must have been the lack of oxygen which made him continue, "Is tonight good for you?" 

"Tonight?" The tousled head cocked in precise reflection of the rabbit's. "You don't like the party?" 

"It's okay, I guess, it's...not really, no." 

"Oh, good! I don't either. Nobody's having fun. Bo-ring!" Ryuichi stuck out his tongue in the general direction of the affair. 

Tatsuha laughed, unable to help himself, and stood. "I'll go tell Shuichi--" 

"No, you have to finish eating first," Ryuichi proclaimed, and shoved the plate at him again. 

"Of course," Tatsuha complied. He would need his energy. Under Ryuichi's bright watchful gaze he began gulping hors d'oeuvres fast enough to choke, only to pause mid-swallow. "Ah, Sakuma-san?" 

"Hai?" He was rocking back and forth on his toes like an impatient child, Kumagoro dangling in one hand. 

"Can you pinch me?" 

"Nnn?" Ryuichi reached out and caught a fold of skin on his arm, twisted. "Like that?" 

"Ouch!" It had hurt. This _was_ real. He rubbed his bicep. "Thanks." 

Ryuichi giggled, a brief birdsong trill. "Tatsuha-kun's funny!" 

Tatsuha-kun wasn't going to deny it. He wasn't going to deny anything. The only way he could possibly get any higher would be profoundly illegal. It wasn't that he was so close he could see the length of those dark lashes; it was that the blue eyes behind them were on him, were seeing him. That immeasurably talented voice was addressing him, only him, and he would if he could hoard every word, as a miser hoards gold. 

And then the plate was emptied and Ryuichi had latched onto his hand again, tugging him up. "Let's go!" 

If he died now, he would pass beyond as the happiest man to ever have lived. "Right behind you," Tatsuha said, and floated as much as walked to the door. 


	2. silent beat

Tatsuha wasn't sure what he had been expecting. Something like his own place, maybe, CDs stacked everywhere and posters papering the walls. Or else like Eiri's mansion apartments, wealthy, spacious and coordinated. 

Sakuma did live in a penthouse, the top floor of a thirty-story complex, and the size was befitting to his fame. But the walls were mostly bare, flat expanses of muted paints, and the furniture was spare and ordinary: futon, chair, table, lamp. There were a few touches. The entertainment complex to which Ryuichi had referred dominated the main room, a blank black widescreen wedged between enormous speakers. On one end of the futon were piled an assortment of toys, mostly Kumagoro's siblings, pink bunnies of every shade, shape, and size. And one wall was scrawled with crayon art, like an indelible blackboard, covered in doodles, jagged lines and messy kana. In the corner Tatsuha saw rows of smaller print--Roman alphabet, he couldn't understand most of the words but thought they might be lyrics to a piece he didn't recognize. A new Nittle Grasper song? One as yet unheard by anyone... 

"Isn't it big?" Ryuichi said, patting the television gingerly. "It's loud too." He sat Kumagoro on top of the set to keep watch over the room while he opened the cabinet beside it and began rummaging through the cassettes and DVDs stacked inside. "Do you like TV, Tatsuha-kun? I don't watch much but sometimes it's funny." 

"I watch a little," Tatsuha said. "I like some of the music shows." 

"Those are fun! I like to be on them. Though when it's an American show I usually have to remember to sing in English and I do, except when I forget. But in Japan they don't care if I sing in English or Japanese." 

"Your voice is fantastic no matter what you're singing," Tatsuha said sincerely. Ryuichi was still pawing through the cabinet, so he took a few steps closer to the enigmatic writing on the wall. "Sakuma-san, this is English, right?" 

"_Un_. I like English. It's easier. The words mean less things. In Japanese I get mixed up. I found it!" Flushed with triumph, he held up the video, then bounced over to join Tatsuha's inspection of the wall. "Can you read that?" 

"Not quite," Tatsuha confessed. "My English isn't too great. Is it new lyrics?" 

"Yeah." Ryuichi ran his fingers over the crayon marks. "I think so. But there's no music yet. Tohma will have to make some. Unless you want to. Do you want to sing for me, Tatsuha-kun?" 

Tatsuha didn't know if it was a joke, didn't know if he was supposed to laugh. Didn't know if he could even if it were expected of him--if anything was expected of him--this close, only a foot away from those shining clearwater eyes, close enough to feel his breath on his cheeks. Ryuichi was looking at him, not the lyrics on the wall, not the television or the stuffed rabbit, gazing straight at him and speaking in that voice, that priceless voice, every syllable worth a diamond. 

"Or do you want to watch the video now?" Ryuichi asked. 

"Sure," Tatsuha said, or tried to say, but the words wouldn't come. Instead he leaned forward, and it was like a dream, unreal, as if this were a movie and he was only watching an actor dip down and kiss the perfect mouth below those perfect eyes. 

Then he felt his lips close over that tender warmth, and knew this was himself after all. He felt the body in his arms tremble, was for an instant sure he had made a terrible mistake and began to pull away-- 

The mouth under his parted, vacuum opened, locking them together, and the tongue slipped in, twisting about his, not forcing but there was force, not pushing but there was pressure. He heard, distantly, the plastic clatter of the cassette falling, and then long fingers burrowed into his hair, brushed his ear and sent a shiver through him like a blizzard wind. 

Weak-kneed and panting, he felt it end, merge breaking slowly, with care. He was staring into blue, no longer pure but stormy, cyclone irises. No trace of naiveté; the child was gone, leaving only the singer, slant-eyed, fierce, and fair. 

"What do you want?" he asked, not a joke, just honesty, and his voice rang like a bell. 

"This," Tatsuha said, "this, please, this is what I wanted, ever..." He dove forward, fell forward, and so did Ryuichi, and in the center their mouths joined. It had been no mistake, no fluke, and Tatsuha swallowed lightning and was devoured. 

They covered one another, seeking, exploring. He shivered at the warm lips skimming his neck as he trailed his fingers down the beautiful line of his jaw, and then his hands found the wide buttons of the coat beneath the lace. Clumsily he worked at them until he finally lost patience and the final button tore loose, skipped into the corner with a shrill merry clink, and he was touching skin--smooth, but not soft as he might have expected. He had seen this body before, almost as slim as a boy's, but this was not a boy's form, wiry, silk over steel. With his mouth he traced the flawless arc of the collarbone, his hands sliding down the planes of sculpted muscle, while he felt his shirt shrugged off his shoulders and hot breath gusted down his naked back. 

Ryuichi guided them, two dancers moving in step so as not separate for even an instant. Tatsuha barely noticed the door shutting behind them, even when it left them in near-darkness. His eyes were useless; he had seen this before, worn the videos almost to oblivion from watching and rewinding. This was beyond seeing; this was learning what could never be watched or read. He found those lips again without fail, locked to them as if to pour himself down that throat and wrap around the heart. His belt was pulled from his jeans, slithering around his waist to drop to the floor, and burning hands plunged between the fabric and his hips. 

He barely noticed when they fell together on the bed; the shift from upright to across mattered less than the loss of clothing, no barrier between flesh and flesh. They were in rhythm, slower than a pulse but as steady. When it faltered he caught his partner, begged, not in words or expression, the physical was all that mattered, and with every action he plead for it to continue, clarified his desire. 

All that could be heard was the syncopated rush of their breathing, and the friction of their bodies. When fire caressed him he didn't cry out, for fear of shattering that silence, delicate as blown glass. This was nothing like being with a woman, nothing like the couple of men he had experienced. There was none of the caution, none of the careful method of seduction--gentle, but it was a gentleness borne not of suppression but equal strengths, a congress of force and reception. 

Barely sight, barely sound, and yet he had never been more aware, not of his lover, not of his own self. Every cell focused on existence, on this sensation. The lean arms around his torso, the lips against the curve of his shoulder, the legs aligned, all separate and one at once. He was a hundred thousand lives, and one, and a pair. 

Time became crystal, each second unique. He felt himself entered and it was not violation, not dominance, but the final sharing, two beings' integration. 

And then he thrust and pleasure exploded like a nova, flooded them, and they were lost in it, lost in him, until everything was finally overcome by darkness. 

* * *

Tatsuha regained consciousness gradually, opened his eyes at last and found it less black than he had expected. Above him he saw a skylight, filled with a half-circle of moon. When he turned his head, he found Ryuichi kneeling on the bed beside him, facing him. The moonlight made his hair silver, his skin marble. Like a statue, a carving of perfection. He could have looked forever. 

"Did I hurt you?" The singer's voice was low, husky, still melodic. His eyes were obsidian in the shadows. 

"No..." Tatsuha could barely move, this completely satisfied. This complete. There was a dull throbbing which might ache later but no pain could survive this happiness. He knew what this must be, that every beat of his heart assured him he was here. "No, not at all." 

"Good," Ryuichi said. "It had been a long time." His eyes were still black, not windows but pits to infinity. 

With great effort Tatsuha reached out his hand, captured Ryuichi's wrist. As smooth as stone, but warm. He brought the hand to his lips, rested his cheek against it and whispered, "I love you." It was the first time he had ever said it that he understood what it meant. 

He was asleep before he heard any response. 

* * *

Dawn had passed when he awoke again, the room pale gray with the light streaming from the unshaded window. He was covered and warm but there was no presence beside him or against his back. Raising his head, he saw Ryuichi standing by the room's single bureau, pulling on a pair of worn jeans. 

Tatsuha sat up, rubbing his eyes. He smiled when Ryuichi glanced over, asked, "Can I come to the studio today, watch you sing?" 

Ryuichi's head tilted. Thoughtful, he looked, a single line furrowing his brow. He didn't answer immediately. 

"Please," Tatsuha pressed, with a tiny teasing hint of whine. 

Ryuichi pulled a t-shirt over his head, wriggled it down to cover his torso. Tatsuha could have shivered at the intimacy of it, watching what was his to see be concealed. "If you want to," the singer said finally. 

"Thank you!" 

There was no answer. Ryuichi finished dressing with an economy that was almost fastidious, at odds with the casually scruffy outfit. Not taking his eyes off him, Tatsuha took in the bedroom in his peripheral vision, noting the simplicity, even starker than the living room. The bed was barely big enough for two, unlike the futon held no toys. The small mirror over the bureau was the only thing on any wall; the dresser top, however, was an exercise in contained chaos, covered with jewelry and combs, a few hats and sunglasses. Apart from that, it might have been a motel room, hardly lived in. 

While Ryuichi tied his sneakers Tatsuha left the bed, not bothering with the modesty of a swiped sheet. Entirely exposed, he faced the singer as he straightened, grinned cheekily. "See you later?" 

In answer Ryuichi tipped his face up to his. Tatsuha hadn't realized before that he had several centimeters over the rock star, forgot the difference now when Ryuichi rocked onto his toes to kiss him. 

He expected fireworks, but it wasn't like the previous night at all. Gentle, no rushed imposition, purity instead of passion. They traded no flavors, their mouths closed. Yet it was sweet, so sweet, as clear water is sweet after a mouthful of vinegar, and it tasted, so sweetly, of goodbye. 

And when Ryuichi left without a word, Tatsuha said nothing, only stood in the empty room for a long time and listened to the silence of the rising sun. 


	3. a light in the black

Tatsuha made it to the studio a couple hours later, figuring it was enough of a delay that no one would assume any connection between him and Sakuma. He imagined Ryuichi wouldn't care to have his love life spread across Japan's morning news, and as for himself he would rather leave that fame to his brother. Someone, Ryuichi or Shuichi most likely, must have cleared his entry, because he encountered no interference when he walked in the front doors and gave his name to the cute young secretary, who kindly pointed him to the elevators. 

He walked the length of the recording room hall before he found Ryuichi, in a small lounge kneeling on the plastic chair before the single table, trying to tie the ears of his pink bunny around a cola can. The ears weren't quite long enough and the can kept slipping from their knotted grip. Undeterred, he stretched the cloth appendages, mouth puckered in effort, humming tunelessly. 

When Tatsuha's shadow fell over him, he gave the ears a final tug before looking up, smiling like a boy, like an elven changeling, unaging. His eyes were bright with trust, if not immediate recognition. 

He was beautiful, and Tatsuha couldn't help himself, any more than he had been able to before. He leaned over the table, guided his chin with one hand and brought their lips together to complete the morning's opening. 

But where last night there had been fire there was only a distant warmth, sunlight, not stirred flames. The mouth parted willingly, but there was no equal response, no probing tongue to match his own advance. Like kissing water, passive, so yielding there might have been nothing there at all. 

He broke away, almost horrified, as if he had been trying to make love to a corpse, or a little child. But the blue eyes which met his were not innocent, only empty, older than the changeling face. "I'm sorry," Ryuichi said, a whisper. 

"No." Tatsuha stooped, retrieved Kumagoro fallen on the floor and handed the toy back to its owner. "I didn't--I'm sorry, Sakuma-san." And he turned, walked out of the room, every step steady, not daring to look back, even when he heard the can clank and the faint careless humming resume. 

* * *

There must be something wrong with him, Tatsuha decided. Something wrong with himself. He was a sixteen year old boy who had just had the best fuck of his admittedly short life, with a man he had worshipped for most of that life, with no complications, no strings, no cost to himself. Fantasies come true and all that. He should be on top of the world. Not sitting here under the harsh light of a bare bulb, feeling like he was bleeding internally, like someone had torn a huge hole inside him, where it didn't hurt but was killing him all the same. 

There had been no promises, not even the promise of a hint of a promise. What had happened last night had been last night, just last night. They had both understood that, hadn't they; they were both men, after all. Not boyfriend and girlfriend, not fiances; it wasn't as if he was some pure delicate maiden, to be bedded and wedded. He had expected nothing except what he had gotten, and that had been equal to his wildest dreams. 

And yet he was here, sitting on an overturned bucket and staring at the limp grimy head of the mop in front of him like it was a work of art. _You're being an idiot_, he told himself. _A first-class moron_. But that lump in his throat wouldn't dissolve. 

"Oi, Tatsuha!" The storage closet door opened and Shuichi's pink-haired head poked inside. "What are you doing in here? I've been looking for you everywhere." He regarded the hanging mops and brooms with some suspicion. "Did someone lock you in here by mistake? K thought he saw you down this hall or I wouldn't have found you at all. Sakuma-san's going to do a recording, you can't miss that!" 

"Oh," Tatsuha acknowledged listlessly. "Sure." 

He rose from his bucket and followed Shuichi, bounding down the hall like a jackrabbit and taking two steps back for every three forward to keep pace with Tatsuha's dawdling. But they hadn't gotten halfway down the corridor when Shuichi paused, regarded him. "What's wrong?" 

"Ah... Nothing." Tatsuha raised his head, made a concerted effort to walk faster. 

He didn't fool Shuichi; the rock star snagged his arm, yanking him to a halt to study him more closely, concern in his eyes. "No, seriously." 

"Shindou-san," and Shuichi blinked at the formal address, though he didn't interrupt. "How can you be so excited about seeing Sakuma-san sing? You know him personally--he's your rival, even..." 

Shindou frowned, disappointment written clear over his face. "I thought you'd understand," he said, almost accusingly. "I know Sakuma-san, yeah. He even calls me a friend. But the man who sings--the man who inspired me to become what I am--he's beyond that. I can't know him. Besides," and his eyes sparked, "he's still a genius. Even if I'm making good songs, even if I sing as good as he does--even if someday I'm better--I'll always love his music." 

"Even if he--" Tatsuha began. Then stopped himself, said instead, "Let's go, before we miss it," and took off down the hall, so Shuichi had to sprint to keep up. 

A crowd had already gathered around the recording studio. Even if regular fans couldn't get into the building, Nittle Grasper had plenty of followers among NG's staff, and it was a given that everyone who worked there loved music. Shuichi elbowed his way through the knot of onlookers to secure the best view, right by the glass, pulling Tatsuha in beside him. 

Sakuma was recording a track solo, with Tohma watching and Noriko's keyboard supplying the tempo. But even bound under headphones in such a constrained setting, Ryuichi still performed. His head flung back and his arms outstretched, he threw himself into the beat, whole body moving with the rhythm as he sang. 

His flashing eyes were focused, not on the engineer before him, but an invisible point above, a center perceivable only to him. And his face was transfixed, that expression seen so many times before, caught in a place beyond ecstasy, possessed by a power greater than will or desire. 

Tatsuha had seen that look in all the videos, seen that energy so great it pulsed from dead recordings and lifeless photographs. But last night, when it would have been only his--he knew now why he had accepted dark, why he had never tried to see his lover's face. Knew what he had missed in the pale light of this morning. It would have burned him alive, turned him to stone, if he had touched that force. He hadn't reached it at all. 

The hall was suddenly too hot, the people around him too close. He fought his way free of the crowd, stumbled down the corridor until he reached the lounge and pushed inside. The door swung shut behind him, leaving him alone. He found a chair before his legs gave way entirely, collapsed in it shaking. 

Sometime later the door opened. Tatsuha kept his eyes lowered, as if no eye contact would render him invisible. He could hear the music, different song but the same voice, that which he once would have shaved his head to hear. Now he was thankful when the door was closed again, muffling it. He waited for his solitude to be returned as well. But after crossing the room and collecting a soda from the machine, the intruder didn't leave, instead took a seat beside him. 

He focused on the plastic table's fake wood grain as the can opened with a hiss and gurgled as she took a sip. She lowered it, let the silence rest a moment before saying, "It's Tatsuha-kun, isn't it?" 

He couldn't deny a direct address, had to look over. "Yes, Noriko-san." He felt a twinge of surprise that someone so famous remembered him after only one introduction--but that had only been last evening, after all. It just felt like a lifetime ago. "I..." He didn't know what else to say. 

She didn't press him. But after another moment passed, she remarked, "He sings differently. I bet you noticed. I can hear it; Tohma too. Shuichi might, but he probably wouldn't know what's changed." 

Now he looked at her, unwilling, afraid. But there was no censorship in her eyes, no anger as she said, "I'm sorry, Tatsuha, that it couldn't be the way you wanted." 

There was understanding in her face, and for an instant he thought he glimpsed a shimmer of grief--not just a reflection. The empathy was too strong. And he suddenly realized how she could understand. "Noriko-san, did you...?" 

"Just one night," she answered. "Years ago. Before I was married. I won't forget, but he might have. I'm not sure. It's not something that comes up much." 

"Only once..." 

"I needed to know. And he was everything I imagined, gentle, conscientious, passionate...but it didn't happen. Not beyond that once." 

"Your choice?" Tatsuha had to ask. 

"I don't know, to be honest." She looked at him sharply. "Make no mistake. I love my husband and I adore my daughter. That...never could have happened." 

"But it did." He was surprised at the bitterness in his own voice. "And now to me." 

She sighed. "Don't get me wrong, Tatsuha-kun. What you had--that wasn't a common thing. Not in the least. And Ryu-chan--Ryuichi--he'd never want to hurt you; he never wants to hurt anyone. That's why it's over. Before you could hate him for what he takes." 

"Hate him?" He stared at her. "I couldn't--he didn't hurt me, not at all. He didn't take anything from me, he only gave, he took nothing--" 

She didn't say anything, only gazed at him steadily, and he heard what he was saying. Stopped, swallowed and said, "And he wouldn't, would he?" 

"No," she agreed. "He wouldn't." She smiled softly. "Ryu-chan can be so selfish. And yet he's not. I never know if we're too kind to him, or he's too generous with us. He asks for plenty, and he gives plenty, but that...maybe he can't accept it. Maybe he just won't. For our sakes as well as his, I really do believe." 

"But why did he let me..." 

"I don't know. He might not know--I don't think he could tell us, even if he does. He's not like that. You understand, don't you, Tatsuha-kun? It's not possible, not being who he is. And it is safer for him this way. Better. He's never fallen prey to the things that get so many people with his kind of talent; the fame's never changed him. I don't know if I'm the same person I was, but he's always been Ryuichi." 

She watched Tatsuha's face as he listened, and she said at last, kindly, "Ask. You want to, I can see it in your eyes. You won't offend me." 

He ducked his head despite the assurance, gathered the last shreds of himself. "Do you--does he--do you regret it?" 

She blinked, sat back with a startled look as if caught unawares. Then she shook her head, smiling. "No. I don't. I wouldn't repeat it now, of course, but then...it had nothing to do with Nittle Grasper's break-up, you know; it was long before that. I don't want him again--but if I could live that time over, I'd do everything the same. I'd never take that night back." 

Tatsuha wondered if perhaps it was a good sign that at least half of that was true for him--he would never take back last night. "That's something, I guess," he mumbled. 

Noriko was still studying him, looked him long and hard in the eyes, then shook her head. "You aren't going to," she said with a hint of astonishment. "You aren't even thinking it, are you?" 

"Thinking what?" 

"Everyone," she told him, "anyone who gets to know him eventually asks us--me, Tohma--everyone asks us what he's really like. They hear him sing and then they meet him offstage, and then they want to know who is the real Sakuma Ryuichi. But you aren't going to ask it. It hasn't even crossed your mind." 

"What kind of question is that?" Tatsuha demanded. "Who he is--I know who he is. I've followed him for half my life. I don't know him, I don't know him at all, but I know he's Sakuma-sama. He's the one who sings, and plays with Kumagoro, and writes lyrics in English on his walls, and last night--" He had to cut himself off before it overwhelmed him. Though oddly the memory didn't hurt. Just left him breathless. 

And Noriko's dark eyes hadn't left him, still reflecting that edge of surprise. "Tatsuha-kun," she said, quietly but with a world of meaning. "There is something. Not what you wanted--but maybe as much." She patted his hand, familiarly, almost like Mika might have. "It won't be easy, not at all. But you might be strong enough to try..." 

* * *

He wasn't two steps out of the lounge when Shuichi came pelting up, his eyes sparkling, looking younger than Tatsuha by years. "Where'd you go?" he admonished. "You missed the last song--it was amazing! I don't think I've ever heard Sakuma-san sing like that before!" 

"Sorry, I, uh, wasn't feeling well," Tatsuha covered. "Maybe I'm coming down with something." 

There was a set to Shuichi's brow which indicated he wasn't convinced, but he let it go, nodding understanding. "You'll have to come back again when you're feeling better." He looked back over his shoulder at the people leaving the sound studio, waved energetically at the figure in the baseball cap. "Sakuma-san! You were great!" 

Ryuichi shot over to him, beaming. "Thank you Shuichi!" 

"Sorry I missed it," Tatsuha said. He didn't have to force the smile; Ryuichi's was more than contagious. 

But it dimmed when their eyes happened to meet, darkened, only a little, but Tatsuha felt it, sun behind clouds. He wondered if Shuichi noticed, wondered how anyone could not, but he didn't let it break him. "Shuichi says maybe I could come to the studio again?" he asked. "I'd really like to see you sing like that." 

"Really?" Ryuichi asked. 

"Really," Tatsuha confirmed, and then he suddenly found himself with an armful of olive-haired superstar, hugging him for all he was worth. 

"So Tatsuha's your friend now," Shuichi said, grinning. 

He felt the grip around him loosen, felt the man stiffen. Before he could let go, Tatsuha wrapped his arms around him, squeezed and released. And was rewarded by the smile's return, brighter than before, indigo eyes glowing. "We're friends, right, Tatsuha?" Ryuichi asked. "You and me and Kumagoro, we'll be friends always?" 

"Hai," Tatsuha said, "friends forever." And it wasn't quite as hard to say as he thought it would be. 

owari


End file.
